“Pagoda-shaped shoulders,” said Pelleas.
“And delicate pointed faces—”
“They look hungry, all the time, and bony,” Pelleas dismissed the matter—Pelleas, who in saner moments commiserates me upon my appalling plumpness.
“There comes the butter woman,” I submitted, to change the subject.
“Yes,” assented Pelleas resentfully, finding fresh fuel in this; “Nichola uses four times too much butter in everything.”
“Pelleas,” I rebuked him, “you know how careful she is.”
“She is,” insisted Pelleas stubbornly, “extravagant in butter.”
“She uses a great deal of oil,” I suggested tremulously, not certain whether oil is the cheaper.
“Butter, butter, she spreads butter on the soup,” stormed Pelleas. “I believe she uses butter to boil water—”
Then I laughed. Pelleas is never more adorable than when he is cross at some one else.